


kept on retainer

by freckledshoulderblades



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: <3, Body Horror, Mental Instability, Violence, an old wip i figured i'd polish up and throw on here, basically a drabble, borne from tal saying on talks machina, that percy wouldn't have minded keeping delilah on a retainer of sorts, this is fuck all for length
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 04:57:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13651890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckledshoulderblades/pseuds/freckledshoulderblades
Summary: Conciousness is...fleeting.There are moments - brief and painful - when Delilah wakes from whatever stasis she's being kept in. Moments where she catches a shock of white hair before her entire being is racked with pain and riddled with holes.And then she dies, and then she wakes.





	kept on retainer

Conciousness is...fleeting.

There are moments - brief and painful - when Delilah wakes from whatever stasis she's being kept in. Moments where she catches a shock of white hair before her entire being is racked with pain and riddled with holes.

And then she dies, and then she wakes.

He talks, sometimes. Occasionally, when it seems as though he can't talk to anyone else, when the thoughts in his head have overwhelmed his ability to think properly.

He blames her a lot. She expected that.

If she had any semblance of control over her own body, she would bare her teeth and spit the blame back in kind, but her tongue was torn from her mouth long before she found herself in this purgatory of sorts, a sort of precaution she almost admires him for taking.

Sweet Percival. Always planning ahead.

Unfortunately, not a family trait.

 

Most times she's suspended from chains high enough on the wall that she can't gain the leverage to break from. Not that she has the strength, per se, but it's the thought that counts.

A macabre painting of sorts, with eyes that truly do follow the workshop's inhabitants. Percival is startlingly good at ignoring her presence, however, until he isn't.

The wounds inflicted by his weapons - Ripley called them bullets, Delilah thinks. They tear through flesh and sinew and bone and leave gaping holes in their wake. She understands better how her beloved fell so quickly, between Percival and his friends.

Two of them against a small army? They should have planned better for this. They should have known.

At least then Silas would still be -

The small one visits sometimes as well - a gnomish man decked in gaudy purples. A distasteful sight, to be certain. He always gives her a cursory glance through narrowed eyes and feral grins, healing her just enough so that when Percival returns she doesn't immediately succumb to her wounds.

She supposes he's being kept on retainer for this job. Though he does seem the slightest bit familiar, from before her first resurrection.

A small victory, that she drains the coffers of Whitestone as her captor struggles to keep her alive.

Even if it means dying nearly every week.

 

He keeps her alive and painfully awake for the better part of a week, once, and by the end of it she's hissing curses as best she can with an empty mouth. The best she can manage is setting small fires in the workshop, but even then with the majority of tools and surfaces being metal and the walls made of stone -

It's at best a minor annoyance, one she delights in seeing Percival sigh over.

An odd existence, hers. Strung up like meat to dry, undead by a force she cannot return to, repeatedly murdered by the blind spot she left in a bout of familiaricide.

She only hopes she's a never ending presence in his nightmares.

 

Praying hasn't worked thus far.

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes i like to write bullshit my dudes  
> r&r, comments are amazing and so are you!!! <3


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